For King and Country
by detectivejigsaw
Summary: Sherlock and John are adjusting quickly to having Merlin and Arthur in their lives. Of course, they still need to figure out why Moriarty's return brought Arthur back, and what they're going to do about Moriarty anyhow, especially after he starts committing murder again. Written with the aid of NarniaRoyalNavy123. No slash.
1. The Sorcerer and the Sleuth

**Hey, everyone! Here is the third in my Sherlock/Merlin crossover series, with the help of NarniaRoyalNavy123. Let us know what you think; I hope you're excited.**

* * *

Two men were in a taxi heading for Kensington Gardens.

...Not that there was anything unusual about that. But it's as good a way as any to start things off.

Anyone who saw them together might think that they were brothers; both were tall, skinny, dark-haired, pale-eyed, and fair-skinned-in fact, it was pretty eerie how closely they resembled each other. Not, as far as they knew, that they actually were related.

The younger-looking one was dressed a little less fancily than his companion; he had on jeans, a blue long-sleeved shirt, and a bright red neckerchief draped around his neck, that the other rather felt emphasized his scrawniness. And despite his youthful expression, part of him seemed...old. Like he'd been around for a very long time, and saw and knew far more than anyone else in this era had ever had a right to.

His companion, wearing a long black coat and a blue scarf, exuded brilliance and mystery, with a touch of vanity and an insatiable thirst for adventure thrown in. Some of the sharper edges had been dulled in the past few years-gaining a best friend for the first time in your life and faking your death to save said friend will do that to you. But some old habits were hard to break, among them a tendency to be emotionally distant. In a way, it was not unlike the feeling you got from looking at his companion, that he wasn't really a part of this world or this society. You didn't know exactly where he belonged, but it didn't seem to be here.

Sherlock Holmes had organized his thoughts into two separate tribes. One was reserved for the case he'd been called to-someone had been murdered in Kensington Gardens, just where he and John had gone a few nights ago to retrieve King Arthur and give him proper medical attention (it makes sense in context). He suspected that it had to do with Moriarty's reappearance, and was probably a threat of some kind; the odds of it being a coincidence were decidedly slim.

The other tribe, loath as he was to admit it, was still trying to wrap its head around the idea that Merlin and King Arthur and the whole story of Camelot were real (with some changes from how the story was traditionally told), and that the man sitting next to him was centuries old, and had been alive all this time waiting for England to need Arthur again. This same tribe resented the fact that Arthur's return seemed to have to do with Moriarty's subsequent return, and that he therefore seemed to be trespassing on Sherlock's turf, to use a colloquial phrase.

However, as John would have pointed out to him, they were likely to stop Moriarty much quicker if they worked together (the second tribe protesting that he liked working alone, and didn't need some carbon-dated ex-king getting involved in this), so he should stop whining about it. Though what use Arthur would be had so far eluded him, unless they followed his suggestion of just finding Moriarty and putting a sword through his chest. But it wasn't like they needed Arthur for that, and a gun would do the job just as efficiently. So what the bloody h_ could Arthur contribute to all this that he couldn't? Why would any powers that be think that Arthur was needed now?

He was still pondering this when Merlin spoke.

"We're almost there."

After a second, the detective spared him a grunt of acknowledgement.

"It's probably because we were there. The murder, I mean."

"Brilliant observation," the detective said dryly. Even if he had learned some things from John, like manners, he couldn't help being annoyed at people pointing out the obvious.

"Just making conversation," Merlin said with a shrug.

"Well, stop it. I'm trying to think."

The warlock rolled his eyes at him.

* * *

Finally, they pulled up at the gardens, and hurried over to the crime scene. Inspector Lestrade gave Sherlock a welcoming glance, but looked confused at the sight of Merlin.

"Who's this?" he asked.

"I'm his cousin, Emery," Merlin quickly said, having also noticed the resemblance between them. "I'm standing in for Dr. Watson."

"Oh G_, there's another one," he heard one of the cops mutter.

"What's happened?" asked Sherlock, cutting the pleasantries and ignoring the snide comment.

"Someone's been drowned in the pond." The DI led him over to the body. "What's funny about it is that his lungs were completely dry, and there's not a mark anywhere on him. Not even a needle prick."

"Then he obviously didn't drown," said Sherlock in a voice as dry as the victim's lungs.

Lestrade gave him a look. "He bobbed up from the bottom of the pond."


	2. The Chapter on Gun Safety

**I'm sorry this has taken so long, but it had to be postponed, because reasons. I hope it is worth the wait.**

 **Also, I haven't seen season 4 of _Sherlock_ , but have heard some...** ** _interesting_** **reviews about it. Have any of you who have seen it think it is worth watching/incorporating into this story?**

* * *

"...I really should have seen it, you know."

John Watson gritted his teeth, and rolled his eyes slightly, as he kept himself busy cleaning his medical equipment.

Soon after Sherlock and Merlin had left, Arthur had finally admitted to further pain in his shoulder, and after inspecting it, John had made the decision to give him some pain killers. He was really starting to regret that now; this was the fourth time Arthur had rehashed this conversation.

"I mean, he never gets hurt. He gets into trouble all the time, but somehow always gets out of it with hardly a scratch. And he gets chores done that should have taken two servants to accomplish. It should have been obvious that he's got magic. I'm an idiot."

John found himself nodding in assent, before he managed to stop himself. Fortunately, Arthur didn't notice, sprawled on the sofa as he was, and staring up at the ceiling as he talked.

"For all those years, there was a sorcerer walking around Camelot right under our noses, and Father and I never saw it. Even when other people accused him, I thought it seemed too ridiculous to even consider, and it turns out he's the most powerful wizard in the bloody world. Sorry, warlock."

 _Yes, I get it. Now shut up and go to sleep, please._

However, it was another ten minutes before Arthur fulfilled this wish.

* * *

After a blissfully quiet hour, Arthur woke up, seeming far more sober, and complained of thirst. So John set about making tea, while his patient watched over the back of the sofa.

Finally Arthur asked, "May I see the handgun once more?"

John looked up from the tea kettle he placed on the stove. Now that he'd come out of his previously loopy behavior, the former king of Camelot reminded him of a new pet that had just been brought home, not sure what to do in the new environment. It seemed like a good idea to get him acquainted with the strange items of this century as soon as possible, so he could adjust more easily. John turned the stove on for the water to boil and joined Arthur at the table, once more taking out his weapon and placing it on the table. He had no qualms slapping Arthur's hand when the younger-looking blonde tried to grab it.

"The first thing one learns about gun safety is never to touch one if you don't know how to handle it with care," the doctor lectured. "It's too easy to fire the weapon off and potentially injure yourself, at best."

Arthur eyed the pistol curiously.

"You make it sound as if it were a catapult or a crossbow."

"From your perspective, a crossbow is a perfect comparison," John realized aloud. "It operates by loading a bullet, which is like an arrowhead, and you have to pull the trigger-" he indicated the trigger so Arthur would know what he was referring to- "to release it."

The doctor grew somber as he looked out the window, and remembered all the soldiers he had to tend during his years in Afghanistan. "Of course, bullets are more deadly."

Arthur sensed the shift in the doctor's demeanor, and because he wasn't daft (though Merlin would beg to differ), he saw in John what he often saw in his knights.

"You've been in battle." It wasn't a question.

"I was an army doctor," John said with a nod of assent. "I helped soldiers who'd been hurt as best I could, but I also had to take a lot of lives for my country." He indicated his bad shoulder. "Until a bullet here got me sent home, and then I met Sherlock."

Arthur looked surprised. "Bullets do a great deal of damage, then."

"Yes."

* * *

Arthur got off the sofa and wandered over to the bookshelf, since his interest in the gun had been satisfied. He picked up the book Merlin had conjured up, intending to memorize what history decided to remember of his life, when he noticed something peculiar on the cover.

"Why does this say it was 'adapted by' the author? And what does that even mean, 'adapted'?"

John walked over and took the book for investigation.

"An adapted work is when an author takes an already credited work and modifies the details to allow more people to read the material."

John handed the book back and went to retrieve his laptop from his bag. "Many authors have done this so that younger readers can enjoy classics without scarring them with graphic images," he continued as he sat in his old chair and started surfing the internet. "Let me see if I can find the original author."

"How exactly are you going to do that?" Arthur asked as he walked behind John's chair to observe. He reached out to touch the strange object but got his hand slapped a second time. "And would you stop that?"

"As soon as you learn not to touch things you've never seen before," John retorted as he searched for information on the book; he noticed out of the corner of his eye the shock in Arthur's eyes, and guessed that he was wondering whether or not the laptop was some form of sorcery.

"Ah, here we are! The suspected author of the original manuscript is Geoffrey of Monmouth."

John turned around, and saw the blood leave Arthur's face. The doctor was once more grateful for his quick reflexes as he caught Arthur just before he hit the floor.

Arthur managed to snap out of his shock by the time John made him sit on the couch.

"Geoffrey wrote this?" he incredulously asked as he stared at the book that was somehow still in his grip. "But why- The man had known me since birth! For him to write this about me, about my parents, about Guinevere! I just-I-" his voice failed him as the feeling of betrayal took hold of him. John did the only he could think to do: put a hand on the former king's shoulder, offering reassurance without being too familiar. He didn't quite know what to say, so he just kept quiet. And Arthur was too distraught to be insulted by the gesture of comfort by a complete stranger.

* * *

They stayed like that for about a minute before John's cell went off. He took it out and read the text message, absently swatting Arthur's hand away once more. He replaced the phone and, hearing the tea kettle whistle, rose to his feet.

"We can have a quick cup before we need to leave," he told Arthur as he started to pour the water into mugs and add tea bags. Arthur glanced up in surprise, placing the book down on the table in front of him.

"Leave for where?"

"An establishment called St. Bartholomew's Hospital," was his answer, accompanied by a steaming mug. "The body is being transported there for examination, and Sherlock wants me to look the body over with Molly. Apparently the victim drowned, but had no water in his lungs. Merlin thinks it was a curse of some kind."

Arthur stared down at his tea, wondering if he could stomach the drink after all.


End file.
